


Surge

by ferventrabbit



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Will, Feels, M/M, NSFW, Plot What Plot, fluffy smut?, metaphors for your nerve, murder puppies, so to speak, will is caught red handed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 15:21:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5670712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferventrabbit/pseuds/ferventrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He remembers that look in the kitchen, tries to place it. He’d seen flashes of it in Baltimore: the night of Clark Ingram’s arrest and maybe even the first time they met, glimpsed from the corner of Will’s eye. Then in Italy, seated together at the feet of spring. He doesn’t think about the cliff – can’t, or else his lungs tighten and he feels like he can’t breathe, like he might be dying." </p><p>A Holiday exchange fic for <a href="http://mishaminion666.tumblr.com/">mishaminion666</a>. Happy New Year!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surge

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [the lovely mishaminion666](http://mishaminion666.tumblr.com/). Hope you enjoy!
> 
> This is a sequel to [The Tide](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5509913), though it can be read as a stand-alone fic.

The last time Will decided to avoid Hannibal, it took three years and a series of serial murders to bring them crashing together again. Avoiding him now is harder. Even when Hannibal is in town for supplies or asleep in the middle of the night, Will can’t shake him. His presence is everywhere, in the plates crisp and shining in the drying rack, the book left on the arm of the couch (tilted just so). Will can smell him, too, in certain doorways and on pillows and chairs. Sometimes Hannibal leaves his red cardigan in the living room, and Will reels from it with a soft sound of surprise. He remembers the night with Hannibal beside him and pressed against him, remembers the sensation of Hannibal whispering in his head and the rush of panic and awe that left him breathless.

He’s not sure he could survive it again.

More than that, though, is the sickly feeling of _wanting_. It’s the kind of pent up longing and burst of euphoria that could fast become addictive, and the last thing he wants is to find himself utterly under Hannibal’s control again. They are in Hannibal’s safehouse for now, filled with his elegant trappings and carefully procured cutlery, but if this is going to last for more than a few months Will has to have equal say, has to guide as much as he is guided. A chronic state of sexual arousal and delirium throws a wrench in the works. 

The trickiest time is breakfast. No matter how hard he tries, Will can never wake up before Hannibal. He always finds Hannibal up and in the kitchen, coffee made and something sizzling on the stove. This morning there is an omelet with gruyere and shallots waiting for him on the counter. Hannibal is leaning over the sink to look out the window, mug in hand. His shoulders tense, and Will knows he’s been found out. Sensed.

“Good morning,” Hannibal says.

“Hi,” Will mutters. Their conversations have been fleeting and tense. The Morning After (worthy of capitalization), they stared at each other for a full minute before Will scrambled from the bed, limbs moving too quickly and his speech even faster. _Sorry, I don’t know, I’m sorry_. Since then, Will can see Hannibal retreating back into fine, tailored suits of armor, a sleek smile and dark eyes. It doesn’t ring true.

 

 

Will tests his shoulder by lifting his arm in slow, circular motions. When he feels it catch he lowers it with a wince, kneading the raw place with fingertips. The fall left him peppered in scrapes, lacerations, and bruises that have purpled and yellowed with time. He runs an experimental hand down his body, testing the pain of each bruise that blooms on his skin. The largest one is on his thigh. He traces the uneven edges, presses a palm into the center. The pain dissolves into a bright, clear ache. _Yes._

The wind trickles in from slats in the porch door. Hannibal left without a word this morning, steps sharp. He’s been gone for hours. Will doesn’t have a right to ask where he’s going, not when he’s skirted and fled and answered soft inquiries with stubborn silence. It can’t hold, but Will is unused to the rush of this, both in time and in feeling. Each time he and Hannibal have collided – and never like this – he was able to step back, had time to calm and sort. Once in his own blood and then with Abigail’s ghost, later with Hannibal locked away unseen, then in the hungry mouth of the sea and the weeks of recovery that followed.

His fingers dip from the bruise to the scrape at his knee, a seething blush. The line is rugged and tender. Hannibal’s hands never left his skin, after, but the touches were quick and cold. He wonders at the contrast between that clinical touch and the rough grasp of That Night, Hannibal’s skin warm, almost fevered. Will’s hand finds another bruise on the back of his leg, and he lies back on the settee to lift his hips for a better reach. His fingers trail up to the waistband of his cotton shorts, the skin beneath lightly beaded with sweat.

He remembers that _look_ in the kitchen, tries to place it. He’d seen flashes of it in Baltimore: the night of Clark Ingram’s arrest and maybe even the first time they met, glimpsed from the corner of Will’s eye. Then in Italy, seated together at the feet of spring. He doesn’t think about the cliff – can’t, or else his lungs tighten and he feels like he can’t breathe, like he might be dying. 

His fingers tease down into the cleft of his ass. He’s never touched himself here and never by another person save accidentally, accompanied by hushed giggles and shaking heads. It feels like new flesh. The cool air from the door helps keep his mind clear, though his breath is heavy and loud. His eyes close in fluttered stages. 

It feels illicit, somehow, to skim the place where he opens with thumb and forefinger. Hannibal’s name is surging from each heated touch and he clamps down, satisfied when the thought scatters but shocked, pained at the physical sensation of clenching around the smooth tip of his thumb. His breath rushes out on a laugh.

The sounds he hears are within and without, some aligned with his breathing and errant vocalizing, others sliding up from his belly and heart in soothing and spurring turns. He’s replaced his thumb with his index finger, marvels at the tightness he encounters and a pain that is entirely novel, almost welcome. Creates a space by lifting his hips a little higher, then sinking down as his mouth drops open with a gasp. _Hannibal_.

 _Will_. 

Their eyes meet in a startled flash. Hannibal is standing in the doorway, hands gripping the handles of two grocery bags with white knuckles. For a moment Will doesn’t register him, continues to lower down onto his own finger. In the next instant he is up and falling off of the settee in spectacular fashion, his shorts low on his hips. He hadn’t noticed his erection until now.

“I’ve…brought dinner,” says Hannibal. The strain of avoiding Will’s eyes shows in the tight line of his mouth. Will nods, and the motion of his head sends his body into fine trembling, his knees shaking. He leaves the porch without a word and finds himself in the bathroom at the end of the hall. He closes the door and leans against it, only now letting his breath wheeze out and in.

 

 

Dinner smells wonderful, but it won’t tempt Will from his room. He’s tried to leave and talk to Hannibal, to reconcile this, but his body is slow on the uptake. He urges his foot to shuffle forward and is met with the barest movement of his big toe, hesitating and meek. He feels paralyzed.

Hannibal doesn’t call to him, doesn’t come to the door to try and coax him out. The sky is dark and the wind is intermittent – Will tries to predict the gusts and finds himself lulled into a rhythm of unmoving thoughtlessness followed by quick, blustering waves of panic, fear, longing, dread. There is a fork in the road, two paths that both end in likely destruction. He imagines living quietly with Hannibal, untouched, cordial and detached. The effort might choke him, or Hannibal might save him the trouble. It would end slowly, silently. Antithetical.

If he allows himself a glimpse of the other path the choice would be made for him.

He’d had no delusions about the life they would lead, he thought. Had expected some measure of intensity, word, deed, and otherwise. He couldn’t predict this. He can only liken it to the experience of losing his mind, little by little, until suddenly the air seemed unbreathable, his heart flipped sideways and his thoughts raised to a high pitch. It would be Hannibal, again. But this time he could choose.

 

 

Will crosses the threshold into Hannibal’s room and almost can’t continue. He feels like the ground might give way without warning. He plants his feet firmly, feels the wood creak under his bare heel. He knows Hannibal’s eyes are on him.

He approaches the bed and sits on the edge, breathing through the steady pulse of Hannibal’s mind, close and wakeful. He ignores the words but lets the sensations touch him, some riddled with naked fear and trepidation. Most, though, are loud. Brave. They feel like his name. 

He’s thankful that Hannibal doesn’t speak, allows this proximity and doesn’t push for more. When Will slides closer he hears Hannibal’s breath hitch – in another world Hannibal would never let him live to hear it. Will’s skin is alight. 

His eyes have been closed since he arrived on the bed, but now he opens them and stares at the opposite wall. Adjusting. He turns his head towards Hannibal and drops his chin to his chest, breathing deeply. There is another bold gust of wind, and Will looks into Hannibal’s face and _oh_ , there he is, eyes black and wide. Will touches Hannibal’s clothed leg and watches his hand shake. When he looks back at Hannibal he hopes he is understood, hopes this speaks clearly enough.

It must, because Hannibal wraps one arm around his waist and the other around his shoulders as he kisses him, and the calmness that Will has clung to shatters and disperses. Salt falls into his mouth, sweat from his brow and throat catch on Hannibal’s skin to sink down.

_Will fall Will might not can’t hold it might not hold._

“I know,” Will says, voice broken. “Let it.”

Will’s shirt is torn from his body, disappears somewhere, and Hannibal’s hands are on him as his mouth latches to Will’s throat, and Will can feel the blood rush up and out and into Hannibal’s waiting mouth, hears himself groan on a high, tight pitch. Something in him is screaming to stop don’t forget remember pain. He pulls Hannibal closer.

Every touch is a new, fresh bruise for him to test, explore with bated breath. Hannibal lays him flat on the bed and they both scramble to remove layers of wool and cotton, Will gasping with laughter. It dies away as Hannibal closes his lips around a nipple, slips a hand past Will’s cock and down to his opening, and Will cants his hips forward and swallows thickly around the heavy weight of his heart on his tongue. Hannibal’s lips leave him and his forehead falls on Will’s belly. His breath is leaving him in great, heaving exhales. Will hesitates for a moment before running his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, cradling the span of his upper back with an outstretched hand. He feels Hannibal’s head shake minutely and can feel how fast his blood is pumping, lets himself be awed by Hannibal’s reticence, even here at the edge. He knows the terrible feeling of drowning in this, and knows too that Hannibal is so rarely overwhelmed that this might let slip the beast from its cage, might tear its human host apart in the process. His fingers drop from Hannibal’s hair to his cheek, down to his mouth where Will’s blood is smeared on his bottom lip, on his chin. 

“Let it,” says Will. 

Hannibal lurches from him and reaches blindly to open the drawer at the side of the bed, returns with fingers coated in lube that run down the hard line of Will’s cock, lower still into they reach his opening, and Hannibal shoves two fingers in on Will’s harried inhale, strokes them in as Will keens and slams his hand into Hannibal’s shoulder. Will is curled forward against the percussive boom in his mind, _ohhhhhhh god god god god_ , and Will is clutching the sheets so hard that his hands can hardly feel it. What he feels is every tiny movement of Hannibal’s fingers, sharp pain and the urge to _push_ , but then Hannibal climbs up his body to kiss him and Will is moaning low and long, feel his knees widen as his legs wrap around Hannibal’s back and his tongue is in Hannibal’s mouth when Hannibal adds a third finger, the hiss of discomfort a hot spike that melts under thoughts in a language he can’t understand.

When Hannibal enters him everything slows and quiets. He has never been alone in his head, even in sleep, until now. There is no empathy, no rushing stream, no foreign tongue. His heart is not beating, but black and void. And then Hannibal moves.

_Will._

The physical pain of his heart slamming into his ribcage is met with the slide of Hannibal inside him, and Will is making a desperate noise on each exhale, an injured noise that doesn’t originate in his throat but in his chest. Hannibal’s hands are on his waist, pulling him down with each thrust. Will is shocked by his own language, even more shocked when it devolves into _ungh_ and _huh_ as Hannibal leans in, takes the skin of Will’s throat between his teeth has he spills inside him.

Will doesn’t come so much as unhinge.

He’s never “seen stars” before, has always been skeptical when other people talk about it. But these aren’t the stars he learned to draw as a child, neat lines and angles. These are burning suns that hold true heat, rip a scream from him that tears from a burnt seam in his mind, leaves his throat raw.

Hannibal’s breath is so loud that Will worries he can’t catch it, places a hand to Hannibal’s chest and Hannibal winces. He settles deeper inside Will and holds there. Will feels intensely the need to cry, but doesn’t. He reaches up and brushes Hannibal’s hair from his forehead, places a kiss on his brow. Somehow he knows that Hannibal can’t speak, and will not allow Will to withdraw from him yet, perhaps for a long time.

Will urges his bones to settle, closes his eyes until the tide recedes.


End file.
